Consequences - France x Reader
by anons of the world
Summary: Once upon a time, the nation of France met a woman that he loved, more than the others. There had only been a few others before her, so she was special to him. But love isn't easy, and tragedy often comes with it.


[This is not really a romantic one-shot or anything ... perhaps a sadder, reader-insert, love story that isn't very much focused on love? A more tragic one, that also talks about sort-of-philosophical topics? I don't know what to call it. Ah, well, anyways, I was inspired. Enjoy, and please like, favourite, and comment.]

It hurt. A lot. The pain was slicing through you, ripping you to shreds. But you weren't bleeding; there was no wound. So where was the ache, and why did it exist? Why did it feel as if there was a gaping hole in your heart that was steadily growing larger, choking you, strangling you, killing you slowly and painfully?

It was his fault, you knew. All. His. Fault. You hated him for it, but yet ... there was a part of you that couldn't stop loving him. You hated that part of yourself as much as you hated him. Couldn't you burn that part with your fury, drown it in your tears? You didn't care what you did; if you could only rid yourself of him forever, perhaps you could finally be happy.

And you tried. You had gone to your friends, who assumed they were comforting you by insulting him with all the words of their vocabulary. You had dated other men, but none of them could even hope to compare to him.

Perhaps this was the consequence of falling so hard for someone, of loving too much. Perhaps you felt this way because you still thought of him as the person he was when you first met him. He was standing at the center of a public garden, bushes of flowers surrounding him in a circular formation. His eyes, which were a breathtaking shade of cerulean blue, though you didn't know that at first, were closed in a blissful peace. His golden blonde hair, tied back with a thin piece of ribbon, cascadaded over his shoulder, and stray strands of it framed his pale face. The setting sun caught him just right, so that he was practically illumated, glowing.

You had almost thought he was an angel. Descended from heaven, come to bring beauty to the red rose held in his hand symbolized love, a union between two people, sealed in blood. You didn't know why, but you thought of the man as a promise, a prospect of good things to come.

You were right, in a way. When he noticed you standing a few feet away from him, he, smiling, introduced himself as Francis Bonnefoy. Reaching out, he tucked the flower into your hair, stepped back to admire his handiwork, and complimented your beauty. A complete stranger had praised your appearance, and, immediately after, had asked you to accompany him to a nearby cafe.

That was when you began to fall in love with him. His straightforwardness, his outright way of speaking, especially of matters of love, and his admiration for beauty all drew you to him. Francis could be daydreamy at times, but when you became his girlfriend, he vowed - and of course he kept his promise - that you would be the one thing he focused on. You would be at the center of his imagination, and even if he began to doze off, he was always thinking of you.

Francis was a man who took his relationships seriously. He believed in love at first sight, but if this love was one sided, he believed that it should not be forced. Despite his casual way of asking you out, if you looked beneath his playboy-like looks and cocky demeanor, you would find that he would never treat women and their love carelessly. No; he would never do that.

Or so you thought. After an almost innumerable number of dates - the beach, amusement park, movies, ice-skating rink, pool, dinner - in which you strode along hand in hand with him, he broke up with you. He didn't even give you a reason, just called you, out of the blue, to say that you couldn't be together.

It was probably another woman. After all, you knew he had courted millions of them. Men were so fickle. They promise you their love, then go and finds that they grow bored of you and are now interested in someone else. For all you knew, it could be another man. Francis has never been one to show preference in gender.

Your hypothesis was proven correct soon after. You saw him walking a woman in a long evening gown down your street, talking to her. His blue eyes were so full of life, the same excitement he used to show when he was with your, hands moving in animated gestures. The lady was the picture of sophisticated grace, dark, wavy hair twisted into an elegant knot. Her thin lips were curved into a beautiful smile, with dimples at the edges. Her pale skin glowed faintly under the moonlight, forest green eyes catching the light of nearby streetlamps. You could see why Francis had chosen her.

She was nodding, agreeing with what he was saying. But when she reached up to touch his face with one delicate, gloved hand, you looked away, drawing the curtains over the window you had been watching out of. You didn't care for Francis anymore. You were over him. You didn't care who he seduced or whatnot. He was no longer your business.

You smiled dryly. Perhaps there would be another way to resolve this. But you didn't want to anymore. You were so, so tired of trying. Trying was just wasting your time. It was impossible to cleanse yourself completely of Francis. And you felt so empty, devoid of any reason to live.

A bottle of medicine sat on the kitchen table before you, and slowly, you reached out and poured a couple pills into your open palm, a lot more than the recommended amount.

Staring down at your hand, you felt an odd thrill run through you. Were you excited that you could finally leave him behind, forget about him? You didn't know, and you didn't care. You whispered, "Goodbye, Francis," testing the words out on your tongue and finding them almost beautiful. If this was the end, it had to be the beginning of something else. An endless cycle, going on forever. A thought occurred to you, as you idly watched the pills. Perhaps Francis would also find the fact that death wasn't just an end, but also a beginning, beautiful. He always managed to find beauty in the strangest things.

You sighed, closing your eyes. There was no point in delaying this. Lifting your hand, you brought your hand to your mouth and let the pills fall, one by one.

Suddenly, there was a loud "No!" and someone rushed across the room. He caught your hand, blue eyes frenzied. The few medicine pieces that hadn't entered your mouth dropped to the floor, bouncing and rolling over each other until they stopped, scattered somewhere in the kitchen where they'd probably never be found.

The blonde haired man forced your mouth open, searching for any sign of pills that you hadn't swallowed. "No," he repeated. "No. This can't be happening." He was begging you now, voice taking on a pleading tone. "Please, [Y/N]. Don't leave me."

His free hand was gripping something black. A box? Your vision blurred for a moment, and you looked away.

He was kissing your cheeks, your lips. "Please," he murmured in between them. You forced your eyes open, just as he said, "[Y/N], you're too beautiful to die. Please."

You had to laugh, chuckling softly. "Oh? Is that the only reason you ever 'loved' me? My 'beauty'?" Leaning upwards, you engulfed his lips in one last kiss. "I notice, while you were asking me to not die, you never once told me that you loved me." Your lips were still curved upwards, though your voicec grew softer. "But I have always loved you." And with that, you let your eyes flutter shut. A quiet, ragged breath escaped your mouth, but no others followed. You would've looked the very image of Sleeping Beauty, had not Francis known better than to think that you were merely sleeping for a hundred years. No; you would never awaken from this eternal slumber.

He lowered himself onto a knee, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. Taking your limp right hand, he brought it up to your lips. His words were muffled by your flesh, but it didn't matter to him. "No," he murmured, except this time there was no urgency in it. "I love you. I love you for who you are. And I will continue love you forever." Despite his solemn words, he found himself losing his composture. A tear trickled down his cheek, and then another. Soon, a river of sorrow was flowing down his face. He found himself wishing that crying could revive you, but that only happened in fairy tales.

This was another woman that he treasured leaving him. This was the consequence of loving someone you could never have. Having to live for as long as your country stood, and watching everyone close to you fall. But it was in his nature to love, again and again, and as a result be hurt, again and again. He eyed the remaining pills longingly, but he knew he couldn't do anything. No matter how much he wanted to follow his loved ones into the realm of the dead, he couldn't. It would never happen.

He stood, closing his eyes. Francis took long, deep, calming breaths, though they were anything but. Collecting his sadness, his despair, his moments of weakness, he stored them inside his heart, where no one would ever be able to ever find it.

Then, in the nation of France, the heavens opened and the skies poured rain, for many days. \It didn't stop for a long, long time.

Though in the days after your death Francis was quieter than usual, hovering in places without speaking - almost like a ghost - no one ever questioned him about it.

The ex-nation of Prussia might've been the only one who knew what was going on - Francis never chose to mention your passing away to anyone. Gilbert also knew how it felt to lose someone dear to him, and so,during of his friend's silent mourning, he put together the pieces.

Just days before Francis began acting differently than he usually did, he had been so excited. He had wanted to marry [Y/N] for so long, but his boss had prohibited it. He didn't like the idea of him growing too close to a woman, saying that his focus should be on the good of the country. How would France be like if he just up and married everyone he 'loved'?

Francis had just stormed off. But it appeared that he had managed to convince the higher-ups to allow his marriage proposal a few months after the meeting with his. And as soon as that happened, Francis had confided to Gilbert that he would ask [Y/N] to marry him.

So if he had been so cheerful, what happened to cause him to become this depressed? Even if [Y/N] had turned him down, Prussia doubted that it could make him merely a shadow of his former self. So that meant something bad had happened to someone, and he had a suspicion that it was his friend's lover.

Love was a very strong thing. It could protect people during hard times, help them endure trials and tests. So Francis would have long since recovered if [Y/N] had been with him. And since her name was never mentioned anymore, Gilbert was almost certain that she had died.

Perhaps all the countries carried these burdens inside of them. Having to live on while friends and loved ones pass on, one by one, hurts more than any of them will admit. They can never forget, even if they attempt to;

The price of immortality is a heavy one, a dark one. In the beginning, it may seem like a gift. They were the ones chosen to live forever, and they might've believed to treasure this opportunity. But this so-called "present", complete in a bright bow called "never-aging", is only a trap. It leaps out at these foolish, naive people who believe that this is a blessing, catching them unaware. Living for centuries only means one looses centuries of friends. It means that one cannot grow close to others, because it is certain that sooner or later, they too will leave this world. Leave this person behind, on a world full of suffering and misery, added to with their own anguish.

Of course, even the greatest countries will fall. The most powerful of nations can disappear in a split second. Who can understand the mysteries of the world? Fingers closing around a ebony coloured box in his pocket, France smiled softly. He could only hope they were going to a better place, that they could be finally happy. That they would finally be released from the burden of being a nation.

He found his feet carrying him to the garden where he first met you. Carelessly, he ignored the fact that he needed an umbrella. His outfit was wet the moment he walked outside, but he paid his expensive clothes no rainbow of roses met him, giving him their undivided attention. Water from the rains covered them, the droplets only heightening their beauty. There was nobody in the park, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost believe that this sense of peace was shared all over the world. He could almost imagine that there was no war, no conflicts. There was no pain, no sorrow, no death.

Francis let out a soft sigh. If only that were true. But it was his mission to spread love to the world, to bring happiness to those in need of it. You would want him to follow his dreams, of that he was sure.

The dark, velvet lined box was slipped out of his coat and opened. He reached in, removing a elaborately decorated, though thin, gold band from where it was nestled inside of the container. Kneeling down, for once not caring if the wet dirt was seeping into his pants, he set the ring down at the bottom of a rosebush. The one that carried red blossoms. Red, like blood, but also the colour of the sky during sunset and sunrise. Red, like rubies. Red, bold and intense, vibrant, and knowing no boundaries, so much like love.

He whispered a final 'goodbye' into the air, as if your spirit could hear him. He let you go, releasing you from where he had hidden you in his heart.

And on that day, the clouds parted, and the sun shone.


End file.
